


whiskey on the rocks

by megamegaturtle



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: ;], F/M, Smut, semi-public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marianne is his whiskey and he enjoys her to the very last sip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whiskey on the rocks

Winter's chill is slowly creeping forward, inching closer, blowing frosty breath as the fall breeze bites the tips of their noses with cold teeth. Her deep purple dress ruffles slightly, pressing to her knees due to the slight gale, but her laugh rings clear as she uses her free hand to tug a scarf closer around her neck.

“Told you to wear your tights, Tough Girl,” Bog playfully scolds, enjoying the feeling of their fingers laced together, an interlocked unit as they walk back to his work.

Marianne doesn't say anything, but there is a wicked glint to her eyes for a brief moment as she bumps into him, causing him to lose his balance and stumble on the sidewalk. She tugs him upright, giggling at the scowl that knows his face so well, pressing forgiving kisses to his knuckles before letting go. She then snakes a thin arm around his waist, stroking his side affectionately as they continue to walk in stride. Bog does the same, his arm wrapping around her small frame as she hums, “That you did.” However, he can't help but notice as her hand begins to slide down his side, fingers skimming lightly until her hand is tucked firmly in his back pocket.

She looks up at him, her whiskey eyes burning and her grin unashamed as she pinches his butt. “But then you couldn't look at my legs.”

At the mention, Bog licks his lips and gazes down at those mentioned smooth pale legs.

Memories of the previous night-- _her legs wrapped around his torso, her heels digging into his ass as she clung to him like a lifeline at every thrust_ \--sears his mind. In broad daylight, where she is strong and brave, it is easy to forget that he has seen her at her most vulnerable; naked and unguarded as she moaned his name repeatedly in breathy pants, almost as if it was the only word she could remember. The contrast of her current devilish smirk and her perfectly parted lips last night makes him quirk a crooked grin.

With one final glance, Bog chooses not to say anything and only tucks Marianne closer to his side, trying to remember the feel of her bare skin against his, hot and sticky, as they continue on.

* * *

 

Entering his pub, they are greeted by boisterous laughter and reddened faces as his patrons escape the frigid air with ale and liquor. After dropping off their coats in his office, Marianne leaves his side, heading straight to the bar as she joins in joyous shouting at his employees, her smile infectious as she loudly orders two drinks. Bog moves fluidly through the crowd, his long legs only taking seconds for him to join her at the bar and stand close enough to press his leg against hers.

Stuff gives him a quick nod and settles the glasses in front of them. “Here you go, BK,” she says, moving on to another order.

Next to him, Marianne presses closer, left hand bringing her glass to plum painted lips. “Whiskey like my eyes,” she jokes, reminding him of a drunken night a few weeks after they first met.  

 _Your drink matches your eyes_ , he remembers saying. _And your love tastes like it too--burning, but sweet and smooth._

But then she wrinkles her nose. “And a stout, like your dirty soul.”

To that, Bog laughs too.

He gives her a sidelong glance and sips his stout, the dark chocolate notes wafting in the glass. “You happen to like my  _dirty_  soul, if I recall.”

Setting her drink down, Marianne props her face in her hand as she rests her elbow on the counter-top. The  _Mind your Ps and Qs_  dies on his tongue as she slyly bites her lip and brushes the back of her fingers of her right hand on the front of his jeans. “Maybe,” she says lowly, voice husky.

Around them, the bar is still chatty and a few men cheer as their team scores a point in some game on the television. They’re still pressed close together and he can feel the heat radiating off her body through his jeans. Bog swallows his stout and winds his arm around her slim waist, bunching up the purple fabric of her dress as he slides past it. His hand rests on the counter beside her, trapping her between the counter and his domineering form. The stone surface is cool under his hand, but the atmosphere between them is like ignited kindling as Marianne presses her back to his front, her ass causing friction between them.

His breath hitches at the stimulation and Marianne guides a lithe hand to trail down his arm, her fingernails barely dragging on his skin. From where he’s standing, he can see down her dress, noting that her breasts are firm and perky in the lacy bra he remembers so fondly taking off yesterday. He desperately wants to press a kiss to her neck, right on the skin exposed by her little curl, but he can’t--not yet. In this moment, there is only the two of them, and his heartbeat quickens. His jeans become tight as she nonchalantly turns his right hand so that it’s palm up. Laying her own hand in his, Marianne locks their fingers together--laced as if one--before sneaking her thumb between the two palms and giving him a little scratch; giving him the old school tell.  _I got an itch that needs scratchin’_ is heard loud and clear.

He reaches for his beer, chugging it quickly, and gives her hand a little squeeze. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she’s smirking as she downs the rest of her whiskey, her expression most likely identical to a cat who ate the canary and stole the cream.

When he sets his empty glass down, he bends a bit to place his mouth right next to her ear. His voice is rough as he whispers, threaded with need and want, “Come with me, Tough Girl.”

Her reply is to kiss him, tongue flicking quickly over his lips; teasing him before he can kiss her back. Peering up at him through thick eyelashes, she stands tall and commands, “Show me.”

He smirks at her demand and pulls her quietly through the crowd until they slink down a dark hallway, both grinning from ear to ear. They duck through the ‘Employees’ Only’ door, their adrenaline racing due to the allure of being so provocative in public. The door barely clicks closed as he grabs for her, cradling her face in both hands and pinning her against the wood .

Marianne’s mouth is open and hot, flavored like the whiskey that she is, a moan escaping her mouth as she curls her fingers into his black shirt, pulling him as close as possible. She teases him again, her tongue wetting his lips more before she nips him, teeth sharp and her bite spurring him to continue. Somehow--and he’ll thank himself later--he remembers to lock the door before gathering her in his arms and placing her on a nearby counter, never once breaking contact with her lips.

As he’s kissing her, burning and smoldering kisses, her hands skim down his sides and unbuckle his belt, then undo the button of his jeans. It’s when he hears the zipper and feels her fingers brush his member that causes him to break the kiss and look at her, his eyes dazed and lips starting to bruise.

“What…wha--?” he tries, but his mind is foggy, too enveloped in the warmth of this moment, in the feeling of her pressed so close to him.

Marianne chuckles, the sound deep in her throat as she murmurs the words against his lips, her hand stroking him gently. “I just want to feel you inside me.”

He smiles against her lips and lets her continue, his length hardening in her hands as he trails his hands down those legs of hers that he so adores. Sliding up her silky thigh, grateful that she didn’t listen to him about the tights, he hooks his fingers into her panties before slowly pulling them down for her to shimmy out of. Once again, his hands go to her thighs, then to her hips, thumbs pressing into her hipbones, his fingers digging into her ass.

She lets out a small gasp and lowers her mouth to his neck, swirling her tongue and leaving a wet trail in its wake. Her hand continues to touch him, up and down in a stroking motion, smooth and warm as he slips one finger, then two into her slick wetness to stroke there. He can feel her breathy pants on his neck in between her ministrations of sucking and biting down his jaw to his earlobe, as he uses his thumb to grind against the bead of her sex in circles.

Things become more frantic, her grip harder, his actions more forceful as they quicken the pace, their breathing ragged as their hearts beat in tandem and his pleasure grows. “Now, now,” Bog hears her beg, her voice low and raspy beside his ear.

In one fast movement, his fingers leave her and he dives deep into her center; not going slowly as he enters, but quick how she likes. Marianne arches her back, hands firmly flat on the counter as she encircles her legs around him. He’s holding her hips, bringing her towards him as he thrusts into her, reveling in her warmth and slickness, losing himself to the sensation as she clutches him desperately.

As sweat gathers on his brow and clings to his shirt, he doesn’t dare stop, for Marianne looks so wholly content as he fucks her there on the counter. Her hand comes between them to touch herself, and his own orgasm builds higher and higher. She bites her bottom lip, her expression so relaxed that he almost loses it when she moans his name as if he was a deity.

But the only deity between them is Marianne as she arches her back further and her breath hitches, legs tightening around his torso, her center hot and molten. When she comes seconds later, clinging to him as he pushes inside of her, he feels like he could die, her warmth all-consuming as it lights him from within. And in that next moment, his body is aflame with her touch and her essence, his nerve endings blazing like scorching flames as he reaches his own release.

It is the gentle touch of her hand while she combs her fingers through his hair that makes him slowly come back to his senses, her small smile bright in the darkened room. With a groan, he slips out of her, the air cooling him far too quickly, and making him badly want to be inside her again. She laughs, pulling herself up into a sitting position, her legs still loosely wrapped around him. Despite himself, Bog smiles, and his hands go to her hips as he presses a kiss to her sweaty forehead.

“So,” Marianne drawls, her eyes bright with mischief. “How much do I owe you?”

Bog chuckles and buries his head in the crook of her neck, kissing the soft skin there.

“This one’s on the house, Tough Girl.”


End file.
